


let it come down, let it come down

by gauras



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, episode 72 spoilers, post-episode, they walk around and actually talk quite a bit bc they're now apparently Like That, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: Jester pulls Nott out of the snow. Beauregard mimes an exaggerated wind-up and pitch. Jester claps her hands, laughs. Nott shakes her head vigorously. Caleb looks away and his eyes land on Fjord, who has turned to face the Kiln, a distant look in his tired, golden eyes.Caleb breathes in, then out, breath hanging in the air for a crystalline moment before a gust of wind whisks it away. “Fjord?”A blink, quick and startled. “Hmm?”“Are you… alright?”





	let it come down, let it come down

**Author's Note:**

> i genuinely never thought i'd write for this pair again but here we are. Here We Are
> 
> 1\. i've never written a post-ep fic (SPOILERS FOR E72!!!!) 2. i've never written caleb pov and 3. don't mind potentially horrendous name spellings. i think we can all agree that there's no winning when it comes to fantasy names
> 
> title is from [new river](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWd9f60XDmk) by the oh hellos

The Dusts are… not exactly sad to see them go, but fond enough in their farewell, especially towards Caduceus. Caleb can understand that; their group is a lot, even to people who receive frequent visitors. 

Caduceus wheedles promises of a family dinner from the Dusts in that rumbly, gentle way of his, the one where people agree to his plans without realizing and then can’t take it back when faced with a sincere “That’s great.” The matron of the Kiln--Jeramis--laughs when she realizes what he’s done and wags a finger at him in motherly reproach. Caduceus, who can be hard to read given his general serenity, looks positively delighted.

Taila, upon noticing that Beauregard carries no coat, ropes Kemdall into scrounging about for whatever spare shawls and scarves they have, and then proceeds to drape Beauregard in them until she more closely resembles a frail grandmother than a healthy young monk whose fists are magical weapons.

Throughout it all, Fjord is strangely quiet; he refrains from ribbing Beauregard or apologizing to Jeramis for the surprising force that is Caduceus on a mission. He hangs back. Not in the way he sometimes does, when he steps down to let another be the face of the group. No, after his reveal, after telling the group about Vandran and Uk’otoa and the fate of his powers, he had simply shut his mouth and kept his eyes averted. Now he lingers at the back of the group while farewells are exchanged, as though he can melt into the shadows if he cowers from the spotlight.

Caduceus and Jester are busy making plans for their return visit with Taila and Kemdall, Nott is badgering Beauregard for a shawl studded with reflective sequins, and Fjord is pressed against the wall of the Kiln’s entrance, fingers tap-tap-tapping at a vambrace. Caleb is watching it all, and does not miss it when Jeramis Dust steps up to Fjord and snags his hands in what seems to be a tight grip. She tugs Fjord down to her eye level and clutches both his hands in hers.

“You are on a difficult path, boy,” she says, wide, dark eyes peering intently into Fjord’s. Fjord ducks his head, in agreement or shame, Caleb can’t say. “But I think you’ll be alright.” Her eyes flickers over each of the Nein, before coming to rest on Caleb. She winks, and Caleb has to look away, pretending to pick at a ragged nail. “You’ve got good friends to look after you.”

There’s a quiet huff of a laugh, one that Caleb only hears because he’s listening for it. “I suppose you’re right,” Fjord says, still in that low, lilting voice, “thank you.”

“Of course,” Jeramis says, then clears her throat. “Alright, enough of that. You all need to be going, if you’re to beat the next storm.”

So they’re ushered out, laden down with magma-roasted squirrel and Beauregard’s eclectic collection of winter wear. The Dusts wave from the Kiln’s entrance as the Nein descend the mountain, three stout figures that grow steadily smaller until they are hidden by the dark, craggy rock of Kravaraad. Caleb idly muses on the goodness of those people, that they were willing to help a group as ragtag as their own, family friends or no, then shakes his head and turns his attention to the ground.

They trek along, making good time across the barren lava rock. Ahead, Jester wonders, excitedly now that the mystery is gone, if they’ll encounter the ghosts again. Caduceus replies, but Caleb tunes it out in favor of focusing on his feet, taking care as the rock slowly becomes slick with slush and ice the further they get from the volcano. It would be just his luck to slip and fall and potentially twist or break something.

While he does not begrudge Fjord, Caleb is now painfully aware of his friend’s mortality and vulnerability. If they encounter something, anything lurking in the woods ahead, the group will need everything at their disposal to protect their newly de-warlocked warlock.

So step carefully he shall.

He’s so absorbed in his self-appointed task that he doesn’t immediately notice when he falls from the middle of the group to the back. It’s fine, it’s where he prefers to be, but Caleb feels the absence of Nott at his side as keenly as he feels the biting cold. She’s further up, trotting along next to Jester as they discuss Matilda Merceria’s truly profound and evocative writings. 

By now, they’ve reached the true edge of the snow, where it has collected overnight into truly impressive drifts. Caleb watches Nott hold out a hand and make a show of searching the pristine snow for traps, then step out onto the drift only to sink a sizable foot down with a shrill shout, and ignores the slow ache that builds in the center of his chest.

Jester pulls Nott out of the snow. Beauregard mimes an exaggerated wind-up and pitch. Jester claps her hands, laughs. Nott shakes her head vigorously. Caleb looks away and his eyes land on Fjord, who has turned to face the Kiln, a distant look in his tired, golden eyes.

Caleb breathes in, then out, breath hanging in the air for a crystalline moment before a gust of wind whisks it away. “Fjord?”

A blink, quick and startled. “Hmm?”

“Are you… alright?”

Fjord turns to Caleb, head cocked with confusion somehow, _ impossibly, _ written plainly on his face. It all smooths away a moment later, replaced with a small half smile that is so hesitant and gentle that Caleb feels his heart pause in his chest, give a slow double beat, and resume again.

“Ah. I’m fine.” Fjord pauses, shakes his head, and scuffs a boot in the slush, uncharacteristically shy. _ Perhaps not so unusual, _ Caleb’s mind says. _ What do we know of the _ real _ Fjord? _ Caleb shushes his mind. Fjord is Fjord and actions say more of a person than their words. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure. I think--I _ hope _ I will be?” It’s phrased like a question, an uncertain uptick at the end, spoken still in this new-old voice, and Caleb’s stomach does a complicated little twist. Caleb opens his mouth to say something, he isn’t sure what, when Fjord focuses on something behind him. “We should move, or else they might leave us behind,” he says with a nod.

Caleb turns. Caduceus has taken point, helming the slog through the deep snow, likely chosen to tamp down a path for the shorter party members. “Oh. _ Ja, _ let’s go.” They reach the beginning of the trail just as Nott spins around, hands cupped around her mouth.

“Hey, Caleb! Fj--Oh.” Her hands drop and her eyes flicker rapidly between them before slowly narrowing in suspicion. “Never mind.” Caleb’s brows raise, unbidden, when Nott does nothing more than whirl around, pull her flask from her bag as she goes, and down a healthy swig.

There’s a touch to Caleb’s shoulder when he does nothing more than stare after his little green friend. “D’you want caboose?” A slight _ drawl _ lengthens the vowels and garbles the consonants into a suspicious twang. A ruddy blush stains Fjord’s cheeks, all the way up to the tips of his ears, when Caleb looks up at him. He coughs lightly, but says nothing more.

_ Does _ Caleb want the back? It certainly feels the safest spot, but he doesn’t want to outright coddle the man. Besides, something about Fjord trailing behind the group when he’s typically right at the fore doesn’t sit right with Caleb. So he clears his throat, “ _ Ja. _ Please.” Fjord nods and steps passed, trailing the tips of his claws through the snow as he passes.

Caleb follows, still careful of where he puts his feet now that the snow has been thoroughly pressed down into a slippery crust. At the head of the group, Caduceus blazes a meandering trail down the mountainside at a slant, angling for the tree line below. The snow banks on either side of the trail rise up, first knee height, then hip, all the way up to Caleb’s waist. It’s a daunting, strenuous journey, and Caleb worries for Caduceus up ahead. He reels his anxiety back in, a fish on a line, and watches Fjord’s steps for stable footholds.

It’s not often that Caleb finds himself next to Fjord in the marching order, given Fjord’s propensity for leaping into danger and Caleb’s decided aversion to it. The change is… nice, to say the least, although Caleb regrets the circumstances surrounding it. Caleb shakes his head and instead commits himself to studying Fjord, seizing the chance to openly stare at his friend in this moment of mind- and nose-numbing downtime.

Give a person nothing to do but walk and walk and walk and it’s possible to learn quite a bit about them--what they do to pass the time, how they entertain themselves as they place one foot in front of the other, how they hold themselves as their walls are brought down by the exhausting monotony of a long trek.

Fjord is no different. He’s not the most perceptive of the group, that title easily goes to Caduceus, but he’s curious and watchful. A bird will cry out a warning as it flits from branch to branch above their heads and Fjord will crane his head back to watch its path. Snow will slide from the trees’ branches to land with a wet, heavy _ fwump _ and Fjord’s attention will snap over to it, relaxing only once he finds the source. 

His hands are always on the move; Fjord likes to touch, this Caleb knows, it’s gotten them into trouble plenty of times before. He’ll scoop up a handful of snow and pack it into a tight ball, just to let it sit in his palm and melt, head tilted to watch droplets of snowmelt trail behind him. When he passes by a tree, he trails his fingers along it, pulls off some needles from a low hanging bough to examine and pick apart. Caleb has no doubt his fingers are covered in sap and grimaces. 

_ You have bat shit in your pockets, _ Caleb’s mind whispers. That’s a fair point. They keep walking, and Caleb doesn’t say anything when Fjord swipes a forefinger along a knot in a tree that weeps sap, presumably just to feel its cold, sticky texture. Fjord rubs his fingers on the side of his quilted leggings. Caleb knows from experience that it doesn’t help.

It’s quiet. Even the rest of their friends, weaving their way from tree to tree further ahead, are mostly silent. The forest is eerily still, the hush that hangs around them broken only by the brightly colored birds that swoop by and a muttered expletive when someone’s foot punches through the tenuous layer of packed snow.

Stupidly, pettily, Caleb is proud of himself for being the only one of the group to not break through the snow, which is, of course, the exact moment that his right leg plunges deep into the old, brittle snow below last night’s fresh fall. He sinks, all the way up to his thigh, then tilts sideways, windmilling arms doing nothing to prevent him from tipping over and falling deep, deep into the snow.

There’s a brief moment of panic, as the childhood stories of avalanches and people suffocating under tons upon tons of snow flash through his mind. Before the fear and desperation can settle in, though, there’s a voice calling his name, and Fjord’s face pops up above him, worry lining the crow’s feet by his bright eyes. He offers Caleb a hand, which is taken wordlessly. Together, they heave and grunt, Fjord’s boots sliding dangerously in the snow, until Caleb is upright, both of them breathless in the thin mountain air. Caleb’s hand is still in Fjord’s and somehow their hold has shifted from something utilitarian to almost… intimate. Fjord smooths his thumb along the line of Caleb’s knuckles, knobbly like a mountain range, the barest hint of a claw trailing across the backs of his fingers. It feels tacky in the chill air. Caleb finds he doesn’t mind.

Fjord takes a step back, dropping his hand in favor of brushing snow from Caleb’s shoulders and the crown of his head. Caleb bites his lip and fixes his eyes on the ground, reaching back to untuck his shirt and herd the snow that had fallen down the back of his collar out of his clothes. Fjord’s hands come to rest on Caleb’s shoulders, heavy and broad.

“Are you alright?” Fjord asks, quiet and concerned. That damned shock of silver hair curls gently against his forehead, right above the scar that slices neatly through his eyebrow. Caleb swallows, nods, and straightens. Fjord’s hands slip from his shoulders, leaving them nearly chest to chest.

“_ Ja, ja. _ I’m fine. Thanks, big guy.” Caleb presses at Fjord’s shoulder, urging him to turn around. He hopes that the blush blazing across his face like a brushfire can be mistaken for the cold. Fjord lets himself be led, although he does cast one last searching look over his shoulder. Caleb doesn’t know what he finds, but he seems to nod to himself and keep going.

Their friends are nearly out of sight; a flash of blue could be Beauregard or Jester or one of the jays that inhabit the forest, but there is no mistaking Caduceus’ bright hair, so, so far ahead. Anxiety twists low in Caleb’s stomach and high in his throat, a complicated knot that sits heavy as a stone. Caleb is squishy, yes, it’s not like it’s a secret, and while Fjord may still be one of the sturdier members of the group, he’s hopelessly, dangerously defenseless.

It’s not the best pairing.

_ He’s not so defenseless, _ Caleb reminds himself, _ We saw to that. _ Nott’s dagger and Jester’s hand axe clink together on Fjord’s belt and the whip bounces against his thigh with every step. The Glove of Blasting is… there. Fjord’s fine, it’s fine. Caleb mentally reviews every spell he knows. It’s fine.

“Caleb?” Fjord breaks the quiet and it should be startling, but his voice lacks the force that it used to have. Instead, it seems to weave into the silence, as light and natural as the faint bird song in the distance. Caleb doesn’t know if this is just how Fjord, the _ real _Fjord, is, or if it’s a lingering remnant of the uncomfortable self consciousness he’d shown in the Kiln.

Caleb doesn’t know. It should be terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

“_ Ja, _ Fjord?”

“I wanted to,” Fjord pauses, bobbles his head side to side, considering, “to thank you.” Caleb frowns. Fjord’s shoulders hunch up a little and he brings his hands together in front of him. Suddenly, Caleb wishes he’d let Fjord take the back, if only so he could easily see his face. “For, well, everything really. But especially back in the Kiln.” _ Ah. _ Caleb reaches out and snags Fjord’s elbow. He pivots easily, eyes downcast. His left hand, tacky with pine gum, plucks at the cuff of the Glove, little lines from his claws etched into the leather.

“Fjord--”

“Please,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet Caleb’s, an intensity burning in their molten depths, “let me finish.” _ No one listened. _ Caleb shuts his mouth and nods. Fjord worries at his top lip, budding tusks pressing into his skin, his left tusk lining up perfectly with the scar that cuts through his lip, then blows out a sigh. “Everyone was--prodding and pressing, you know how they are. Give them an inch and they’ll run with it. And they were _ kind, _ more than I ever could have hoped for, but words are only… so much. And then _ you,” _ here Fjord pauses, trailing off into a quiet, disbelieving laugh, “you gave me this glove. The others pitched in, yes, but you _ started it. _ You gave me a purpose, a use, and I know how that sounds, but. I can’t--I can’t be a dead weight, not with this group, not with you.” He’s panting harshly and blinks, rapid-fire, in that way he had in the Kiln, piled high with their friends’ miscellaneous items. That whispered _ Oh no _comes back to Caleb: open, unguarded, vulnerable.

“Would you have stayed?” Caleb finds himself asking. The regret is immediate, but he keeps going, left hand circling around his own right wrist, feeling the jut of his bones that had once been covered by leather, “If we had not reached out, would you have stayed?”

To his surprise, Fjord smiles and nods. “Yes. I--I think so. But you made it so that wasn’t a decision that had to be made.” He looks down at Caleb, something achingly fond in his expression. It leaves Caleb a little breathless, the forthrightness Fjord is showing, _ has _been showing. It could be the breaking of a dam, months and months of repression pouring free in a deluge. Caleb can understand that, can sympathize with him. Or, it could simply be Fjord being himself, no longer hiding behind the stern, stalwart mask of his former captain. Caleb hopes it’s the latter, despite being absolute shit at these sorts of emotionally charged discussions.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Fjord he wished to know him.

Fjord shifts his weight and a twinge of uncertainty begins to creep into his expression. Caleb realizes, quite suddenly, that he’s been quiet for a moment too long.

“I’m glad,” Caleb says with a heavy exhale, “that you’ll stay. That I could help. It feels… good, to help and not hurt. I hope that you know that even if we don’t reforge the sword, or if your snakey-- the snake rears its head again, we will be here for you. We are your friends, and we’ll figure something out.” Fjord sniffs and rubs the back of his wrist against his eye. No tears have fallen, but they’re distressingly close as he offers Caleb a watery smile.

“Thanks, Caleb. I--”

“Fjoooooord! Caaaaaleb! What are you two doing?” It’s Jester’s voice, bright and bursting with an undercurrent of worry. There’s a gasp from over Fjord’s shoulder. Fjord winces and then, “Are you two… _ making out?” _ Fjord closes his eyes and nods in an unsurprised, resigned sort of way. Caleb peers around Fjord’s broad shoulder just in time to see Jester finish skipping up to them, a suspiciously new shawl draped around her shoulders, her tail twitching in a nervous, erratic pattern.

“Ah, I fell into the snow. Fjord helped me out, it was quite the production.” Fjord shoots Caleb a thankful look. With everything that’s changed, it seems he is still a private man. In a way, that’s comforting.

Jester nods seriously. “Oh Fjord’s _ super _ strong, but you’re really weak, Caleb! You should’ve called for help!” She waves them on. “You guys shouldn’t fall so far behind, it’s really hard to pass the rod around when you’re all the way back here.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively and does a twirl, skirts and petticoats flying out in a flourish.

Fjord smiles down at Caleb and raises a brow. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, _ mein Freund.” _

Fjord goes, and Caleb follows.

**Author's Note:**

> [squints] were there trees around the kiln? no? there are now.
> 
> idk... if there's an interest..... but i can b found at my v lonesome twitter @[chitalpas](https://twitter.com/chitalpas).... i talk a lot abt writing and cr and hiking
> 
> thank u for reading!!


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